


Destiny Deferred

by 1917farmgirl



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, Cannon Divergence, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, might want tissues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-15 01:17:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16052462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1917farmgirl/pseuds/1917farmgirl
Summary: One small change can have colossal and disastrous results.   AU look at the episode "The Dragon's Call."Written for Merlin Canon Fest 2018.Beta-ed by M1ssUnd3rst4nd1ng and MadiMalfoy.Banner by 1917farmgirl.





	1. Point of No Return

**Destiny Deferred**

What happens to a dream deferred?

> Does it dry up  
>  like a raisin in the sun?  
>  Or fester like a sore—  
>  And then run?  
>  Does it stink like rotten meat?  
>  Or crust and sugar over—  
>  like a syrupy sweet?
> 
> Maybe it just sags  
>  like a heavy load.
> 
> _Or does it explode?_

\- Langston Hughes

 

**1\. “Point of No Return”**

With wide-eyed wonder and awe, the young peasant boy paused to stare at the gleaming walls of the white city that had just come into view.

It was beautiful, and beyond anything he had ever seen. Humble Ealdor was nothing more than mud and sticks by comparison.

And it was somehow… _magical_! Just looking at it sent a thrill through Merlin that he couldn’t explain, but that touched the part of him that was different from most other people. He knew about magic and Camelot – knew it was forbidden. It had been pounded into his mind by his worried mother for days before he left on this journey, but somehow he still knew that magic and this city were connected. It was woven into the very stones of its walls. 

Yes, Merlin could just tell that this place was going to be special.

With a huge, excited smile plastered across his face, the boy quickened his pace, tired feet forgotten.

*****

By the time he finally entered the chambers of the man his mother had sent him to stay with, his excitement had dimmed slightly – tempered by caution, fear, and sorrow after the horrid spectacle he’d witnessed on arrival in the courtyard.

Still, he called out cheerily when he saw the old physician, and then watched in horror as the greeting startled him and the railing on the balcony he was standing on gave way.

And then Merlin just reacted, thoughts of laws and fear and executions flying from his head. He simply saw a man in peril and knew he could fix it, could save him. So he did. He slowed down time, moved the bed, broke the man’s fall, then breathed a huge sigh of relief as the startled man pulled himself to his feet, apparently unharmed.

And then, before either of them could say a thing to each other, a cry from the door Merlin had never closed behind himself shocked both of them.

“Sorcerer!”

Merlin jerked his head around, all the feelings of fear flooding back into him and sharpening into spikes of true terror as he saw a blondish, curly-haired knight standing in the doorway, pointing right at him.

“Sir Leon,” the old man – the name Gaius floated through his brain despite the horror of the moment – said, jumping hastily in front of him, limping slightly. “Please, Sir Leon, the lad has just barely arrived in Camelot from beyond her borders! He doesn’t even know the laws!”

Merlin couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, could barely even think. He felt frozen, fear turning him to ice as every childhood nightmare he’d ever had began to play out before him in real life.

“Gaius, he’s a sorcerer. He’s used magic. Powerful magic! I just witnessed it,” the knight said, stepping into the room and withdrawing his sword.

Tears filled Merlin’s eyes without his consent as he felt his knees grow weak.

_The knight was going to kill him, right there! He was going to die! He would never see his mother again!_

“Leon, I beg you!” Gaius pleaded still standing in front of Merlin. “He’s just a boy who didn’t know any better! And he saved my life!”

“I’m sorry, Gaius,” the knight said, pausing to look sadly at the old man for just a moment, “but you know the law as well as I and I am sworn to uphold it.” Then he pushed the man aside and came for Merlin, grabbing him by the upper arm and positioning the sword as a message not to resist.

The last thing Merlin saw as he was forced numbly by the curly-haired knight from the room was the old man sinking brokenly onto a bench, his head in his hands.

*****

Arthur breathed a huge sigh of relief as court was adjourned for the day, allowing himself to shift on his chair as the nobles and council members began to file from the room, chatting in small groups.

He honestly couldn’t understand what they still had to talk about after the almost three hours of endless, boring discussions he’d just sat through. He was about to turn to his father and ask if he might be excused when he realized Gaius had stayed back and was approaching the king.

“Sire?” the old physician asked hesitantly.

“Yes, Gaius?” his father responded rather dismissively.

“I wish to beg a favor of you, sire,” the man said, bowing low and catching both Arthur and his father’s full attention. The prince couldn’t remember Gaius ever asking for a favor before or sounding quite so submissive.

“What is it, old friend?” the king asked, turning toward Gaius and offering his full attention.

“There is a young man currently in the dungeons. I wish to plead for mercy on his behalf.”

_Gaius, pleading for a prisoner?_ Arthur sat up completely, boredom forgotten.

“A prisoner?” the king unconsciously echoed Arthur’s own thoughts. “What has he been charged with?” his father asked with a frown.

Gaius hesitated, and it seemed to him that he appeared very pale and old, practically trembling as he wrung his hands. “Sorcery, my lord,” he whispered.

Arthur glanced quickly at his father, knowing those words were dangerous. And sure enough, his father’s expression had instantly hardened, a darkness washing over it. Gaius saw the change as well and hurried on in a panic.

“Please, sire, he’s from far away, he had no idea of our laws, and he –”

“Did he use _magic_?” the king interrupted, spitting the last word out like a curse.

“Only to save a life – my life!” Gaius cried, practically dropping to his knees. “If you will show mercy, banish him from this kingdom, he will leave and never return I’m sure of it!”

“The law is the law, Gaius!” the king snapped, rising swiftly. “All magic is vile and a corruption and those who use it the most evil of all men!”

The physician looked stricken and ready to collapse, making Arthur frown. He knew the law, knew that magic was evil, but for some reason this whole exchange was leaving a sick feeling in his stomach. This wasn’t some random stranger pleading for mercy, it was Gaius, the man who had practically raised him when his father was too busy being king to remember that he also had a small son. Surely Gaius wouldn’t be asking if the boy was evil?

“My lord, he is just a boy…” the old man begged brokenly.

“Who will grow into an evil, wicked man,” the king said coldly. “Guards!” he then called out to the far end of the room. Immediately, two armor-clad men stepped back into the chambers.

“The sorcerer in the dungeons, he is to be brought to the ax four days from now, when the sun is high. Have the preparations begun.”

The men nodded smartly and then left with small bows.

Arthur’s frown deepened. “Father,” he called quietly, rising and stepping closer to the king even as Gaius sagged into an empty chair. “You haven’t even seen this boy, heard what he did, brought him to a trial, and yet you’ve just condemned him and set his execution?”

“I don’t need to see him! He has used magic, practiced enchantments! That’s enough and there can be only one outcome of such a choice!” He glared at Arthur. “You must learn this if you are to one day be king.” The king then turned to Gaius. “And you should have known better than to ever attempt to ask for such a foolish favor. Now leave me, both of you, and I expect to see you at the feast tomorrow night, all thoughts of innocent sorcerers banished from your heads!”

Stinging from the rebuke and still feeling confused and uneasy, Arthur snapped his jaw shut and left, purposefully not looking at Gaius as the old physician crept away.

*****

“Lad?”

A voice filtered into Merlin’s exhausted mind through the cold darkness of his nightmare become real.

He’d been in the dungeon for hours, huddled on the filthy, straw-covered, stone floor, manacles on his wrists and chains connecting him to the cell wall cuffed to his ankles. He’d sat in stunned stillness for the first while, but then the tears had finally trickled down his dirty cheeks, breaking the dam. After that he’d cried and cried, fear and the dreadful realization that he really was going to die filling him, until he’d finally worked himself into unconsciousness, still crammed into a corner with his knees pulled to his chest and his head hidden the arms that rested on top of them, only the damp walls keeping him upright.

“Merlin?” the voice called again, a little louder.

Listlessly, Merlin raised his head slightly and forced his red, puffy eyes to open to the dungeon’s gloom, staring blurrily toward the iron bars without bothering to move anything else. The old physician stood there.

“You are Merlin aren’t you? Hunith’s boy?” Gaius asked quietly. “Who was coming to stay with me?”

At the mention of his mother’s name, fresh tears overflowed his eyes and Merlin just nodded, unable to speak.

“I found the letter in your things after they took you away. I’m so very sorry my boy! If it weren’t for me and my old clumsiness…” Gaius’s voice caught and he couldn’t continue.

“S’not your fault,” Merlin rasped softly. His voice was raw and painful from all the tears but he couldn’t let this man blame himself.

Gaius shook his head. “It is the fault of a broken kingdom,” he said bitterly. “I’ve pleaded with the king for your life, but to no end. Your…execution has been set for four days hence at midday.”

A sob caught in Merlin’s throat at the word execution and he sucked in a harsh breath, trying to hold it back. He couldn’t stop the moisture that continued to run down his face, however.

“Oh my boy,” the old man whispered. “I will not let this happen. Tomorrow night there’s to be a great feast. Wine and mead will be served freely and the celebrating will last long into the evening. It will be an excellent distraction for an escape.”

Merlin started at Gaius incomprehensibly for a moment, then he reached up and rubbed a hand across one of his wet cheeks, chains clanking. “You…you,” he stammered. “You will help me escape?”

“I will not let you die for me, for a disillusioned king’s hatred!”

The boy sniffed and dried his other cheek with his sleeve.

“I will find a way to get you out of here, and then you must return to your mother and never come back to Camelot.”

Merlin nodded whole-heartedly. If he got out of this mess he had no desire to ever return to this horrid kingdom. He couldn’t believe that just hours before he had thought it beautiful and full of wonder.

“I have to go. I can’t be found here. But stay strong, my boy. We will get you out of this.”

With that, Gaius hurried away, and for the first time in hours, Merlin felt a whisper of hope.

*****

“Leon!” Arthur called to the older knight after training later that afternoon. The curly-haired man paused in gathering up the blunted weapons, turning to the approaching prince.

“Leon, a word?” Arthur said when he reached him, nodding toward the far side of the field and a small shed that was currently empty. Leon nodded in understanding, leaving the weapons and following him.

When they reached their destination, far from any listening ears, Arthur turned to the older man, but then he hesitated. He had no reason to ask what he planned, to pry into the matter, to question his father’s judgement. But ever since Gaius had approached his father, begging for a boy’s life, the prince hadn’t been able to shake the uneasy feeling of wrong that had settled in his gut. It wasn’t leaving and he just couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“What is it, Arthur?” Leon prodded, frowning as he picked up on the younger man’s indecision.

So Arthur determined to take a risk and a leap for once and stick by his instincts. He squared his shoulders and looked right at his knight. “Leon, the young sorcerer in the dungeons, you were the one who arrested him?”

“Yes, my lord,” Leon answered, puzzlement mixed with what almost looked like regret on his face.

“What magic did he do? Is it true he saved Gaius’s life?”

Leon nodded, the remorse growing. “Gaius fell from his balcony when a faulty rail gave way. The boy moved a bed beneath him to break his fall, saving his life. I…I sensed no ill-intent from him, only shock and fear.”

Arthur nodded, digesting what the man was telling him, the churning of his insides growing.

“I had no desire to do it, but the law and my oaths of loyalty to the crown…” Leon trailed off. “Perhaps I should have turned away?”

Arthur reached out and clasped the knight’s shoulder, shaking his head. “No, Leon. You did no wrong here. You were simply fulfilling your duty. If there is any fault here, and I’m not yet sure there is, it’s the error of the crown and the law, not you.”

Leon bowed his head slightly and then turned away, his expression rather troubled as he walked back to the training field. Arthur knew how he felt as his own thoughts were a whirling mess as he made his way to the castle.

*****

Arthur grimaced as he walked through the narrow corridors of the dungeons bound for the darkest, most cold and damp cells – the place where users of magic were held prior to their deaths. The cells here were nothing more than stone and metal boxes, devoid of any kind of comfort, on the king’s order. Why should the kingdom waste comforts and pleasantries on those who were only going to die? Arthur had never questioned his father’s reasoning before, but he found the questions rising now, adding to the list that had been building in his troubled mind all night, preventing him from sleeping.

He’d always believed his father a good man and a just king…why did the arrest of a boy he had yet to even see have him wondering if that was always true?

He reached the last cell and stopped, gazing silently within. 

The boy lay inside and Arthur found himself staring. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find waiting for him in this cell, but what he saw certainly wasn’t it. 

The boy was curled into a tight ball on the slimy stones, chained hand and foot and looking incredibly young as he trembled and shivered in his restless sleep. His garments were simple and extremely worn, marking him as a peasant of the lowest class, not to mention that they were now filthy and soiled from the dungeon floor. Messy black hair topped a body that was skinny and pale, and his face was blotched in a way that spoke of recent, heavy tears.

No matter how hard he stared Arthur couldn’t picture the monster incarnate his father would rave about – he could only see a frightened and broken child.

The intensity of Arthur’s gaze pierced the boy’s sleep and he suddenly stirred and woke, turning blue eyes rimmed with red his direction.

“You don’t look much like an evil sorcerer,” Arthur couldn’t help blurting out.

The boy stared at him for a long time before shifting around, chains clanking loudly as he pushed himself up until he was sitting wedged into the corner, his back against the disgusting wall and his knees pulled to his chest.

“That’s because I’m not,” he said softly in a voice so raw it actually hurt Arthur’s ears.

“Then why did you come to Camelot? Why risk getting caught?” the prince asked, leaning one hip against the wall just outside of the rusty bars and crossing his arms.

“To find work,” the kid said with a sad shrug. “I was to be…Gaius’s apprentice…” His raspy voice died off as he hitched in a sharp breath that Arthur suspected was desperately holding back fresh tears.

Arthur was silent for a while just looking at him, examining him with a critical eye, which finally made the younger boy squirm and look away.

“Who are you?” the boy asked shakily.

“Arthur,” he replied, seeing no reason to hide his identity, especially since it was confirmation that what Gaius had said was true – the boy really was not from Camelot.

The boy gazed back at him with confusion, the name causing no spark of recognition to light his tired and hopeless eyes.

“Arthur Pendragon, the prince,” he offered again, clarifying.

That got a reaction. The boy sucked in a quick breath and tried to push himself even farther into the unyielding stone wall, the color draining from his already impossibly pale face to the point his skin was almost grey. 

“And who are you?” prodded Arthur, hoping the boy wasn’t about to faint before he’d had the chance to ask all the questions that were causing him unrest.

“Merlin,” the kid whispered, everything from his hands to his hair to his voice trembling with fear. “I’m just Merlin! Please don’t kill me! I just want to go back home! I didn’t mean to use the magic!”

And somehow, Arthur found that he believed him. Because he had met evil sorcerers before, watched them try to hurt and kill those he loved. They shouted curses and threw insults, bragged and taunted. They did not cower back into corners and beg to simply go home.

Still, despite this new discovery, the next words out of his mouth were not planned and not something he ever thought he’d utter as the prince of Camelot.

“So why don’t you just use it to escape?” 

The boy – Merlin – gaped at him, and in any other situation, Arthur might have been tempted to laugh at his gobsmacked expression. He seemed to be weighing whether the question was meant to trap him into revealing information, or rethinking if Arthur was really who he said he was, because why would the prince suggest escaping from his own dungeon. Briefly, Arthur almost he was going to shout at him, something sassy and probably highly inappropriate, but then he just deflated, hunching back into his hopeless ball of miserable humanity. “I don’t know how,” he admitted in a defeated whisper.

“You mean you can save a man’s life without even uttering a word, but you can’t save your own by getting out of a cell? Didn’t the one who taught you magic teach you that? Seems like a useful thing to learn!”

For the first time an emotion other than fear or desperation flickered across the younger boy’s face – a flash of anger. “No one taught me magic, you prat!” he snapped quietly. “I was born like this! I had no choice! And I don’t know any spells! I can just sometimes make…things happen. I don’t know how I saved his life, I just knew I didn’t want him to be hurt and so my magic responded. Would you rather I had let him fall and die?”

That was an excellent question, and one Arthur couldn’t very well answer out loud. Of course he didn’t want Gaius injured or dead, but saying no would be tantamount to agreeing that the boy’s use of magic was justified, which opened a moral floodgate he wasn’t quite sure he was ready to deal with yet. Instead he ignored it, shooting back a question of his own. “Well, I’m going to assume you also don’t want _yourself_ to die… Why are you still here?”

Merlin glared at him for a moment, then looked away, staring down at the chains that bit into his wrists and ankles. “If you want to know the truth, I…can’t make it work. I…tried. I think there’s something here…in the chains…that stops it.”

That made Arthur straighten with surprise, also turning his eyes to the metal links that kept the boy so restrained. 

_His father was using magic to stop magic?_

And yet, he really shouldn’t be shocked. Of course his father had something in place to stop magic – how else would so many sorcerers and magicians have been walked to their deaths? No one would have stuck around for that – they would have escaped at the first chance.

“So why are you here?” the boy’s scratchy voice asked after a moment, quiet and sad once more. “Just wanted to come gawk at the helpless prisoner for a while?”

“Hey,” Arthur protested instinctively, recalling that this was the second time the boy had spoken inappropriately in as many minutes. “You really can’t talk to me like that.”

“Why? What are you going to do? Arrest me?” Merlin scoffed softly, long fingers worrying at the chain links that connected his manacles. “K…kill me?” Not even the brave attempt at a taunt could hide the stutter in the boy’s voice on that last word. 

Arthur’s momentary ego deflated. 

This was wrong. So very wrong. And he didn’t know for sure why, or how he could have changed so much – practically rethinking everything he’d ever been taught – in only one day, but he just knew he did not want this boy to die. He had to do something to stop it.

“No,” he said firmly. “I don’t think you’re evil and I don’t think you deserve to die. I will talk to my father – to the king.”

He thought Merlin’s face would light up with hope and joy. He was the prince after all, promising to speak with the king on a prisoner’s behalf. Most people would be grateful for that. But the grungy boy in the cell only shrugged a shoulder rather listlessly.

“Gaius already tried that,” he muttered.

“Gaius isn’t the prince,” Arthur said, though deep down he knew Merlin was right. Arthur might be the prince, but when it came to matters of magic – and most matters really – the king did not take council with anyone. 

For the first time Arthur acknowledged what the restless feelings that had led him to this conversation really meant.

This boy was not evil and not a criminal.

Which meant that not all magic was evil.

Which meant that his father was wrong.

But more than that, the king, and therefore the law, was wrong.

Therefore, the only way to save this boy’s life, something that Arthur realized was no longer even being debated in his conscience, was to break the law.

“I will speak to the king,” he said again, trying to sound sure and hopeful, knowing full well he couldn’t say out loud what he was really thinking and planning. 

Merlin looked up, met his eyes, and then nodded slightly. “Thank you,” he rasped, and it was genuine if not any more optimistic.

Arthur turned to leave, plots already forming.

“Wait!” Merlin’s desperate voice suddenly called him back, accompanied by a jumble of clanking chains as the boy scrambled to his feet, standing for the first time.

“What?” he asked, turning around.

“Could I…could I have a bit of paper? And some ink? To write a letter to my mother? Before…before I’m out of time?”

“Is she a sorcerer, too?” Arthur couldn’t help blurting, remembering the spectacle in the square after yesterday’s execution.

“What?” the boy cried. “No! No please! She’s just a peasant, a farmer, who barely scrapes by. And…I’m all she has! Please, I just want to say goodbye!”

Arthur held up a hand and the boy’s mouth snapped shut. “I’ll arrange for some to be sent down in the morning,” he said, though if Arthur had his way, the boy would be long gone from the cells and on his way home to speak to his mother in person by then, but he couldn’t say that out loud.

“Thank you. And can you make sure someone…gets it to her?”

The prince nodded, generously pretending he didn’t see the fresh tears that were starting to wind their way down the kid’s filthy cheeks, and then turned and really left, before said kid could inspire anymore traitorous thoughts.

*****

Merlin stood there for a long time after the strange visit from the prince, feelings too conflicted to move. 

Gaius had said he would help him escape, but Gaius was only an old man who had already made the king angry. Was there really any chance it would work?

This prince – this Arthur – had promised to speak to his father the king, but could he really trust him to do it? And even if he did, what hope was there of changing the king’s mind? According to everything Merlin had ever learned about the king of Camelot, not a chance.

_Merlin._

The warlock jumped, chains rattling as he spun around, searching for the person who had just said his name, nearly tripping himself in the process.

There was no one there.

Wonderful. He was locked in a mad king’s cell, waiting to die, and now he was hearing voices. 

_Merlin_.

“Who’s there?” he cried in a whisper, needing to know but not wanting to draw the attention of the guards down the hall. “What do you want?”

No answer.

Helpless and hopeless, he sank back to the ground, head sagging.

He wondered what was happening at home. Had the lambing finished yet? Did they finally get that south field sown? 

And what was Will doing? Was he up to his usual mischief, or had he started to settle down and finally become the reliable man of the house that his friend’s mother kept hoping for?

What of Merlin’s own mother? Was it evening yet, in their little home? Was she humming to herself as she stirred the small stew pot that bubbled over the hearth-fire, making plans for baking or mending after supper?

Would he ever see her again?

Pain tightened in his chest like bruising fingers and the tears fell once more – he was powerless to stop them – as he realized that no, most likely he would never again run through his village, see the people he’d known his whole life, walk into his mother’s house, be held in her arms as she carded calloused but tender fingers through his hair.

_Merlin!_

“Stop!” he shouted to the disembodied voice inside his head, clamping his hands over his ears even though it did no good. “Just stop! Leave me alone! Just…leave me alone…” he sobbed, throwing himself onto his side on the unforgiving stones, his heart breaking from terror and sorrow. 

He had only a day and a half left to live and even his own mind had to betray him, stealing his sanity. Clutching his head he lay there, weeping as he stuttered out a broken litany of _“I just wanna go home, I just wanna go home”_ to an empty cell.

*****

Arthur was still troubled by the meeting in the dungeons with the sorcerer boy as he made his way to the feast that evening, plans running through his head. He’d promised to speak to his father on Merlin’s behalf, but the more he thought, the more he decided that was a horribly bad plan. When Gaius had tried that his father had reacted by condemning the boy to death without even seeing him. If Arthur were to bring up the subject again, especially at a feast meant to celebrate his father’s triumph over magic, he wouldn’t be surprised if the king had the boy dragged out of the cells and killed on the spot. At the very least, bringing the topic back up would make Arthur come under scrutiny when the prisoner was discovered to be missing the next morning. 

No, it was best to stay silent and pretend to enjoy the feast while making his own plans for later that night.

It was at times like this that he was jealous of Morgana’s ability to throw a fit and get away with it. The woman had refused to attend the celebration, and Arthur envied her the freedom of her evening off. It would have made his clandestine nighttime plans much simpler. 

The feast was like so many others he’d sat through during his lifetime: long, boring speech by his father followed by good food and wine. Arthur enjoyed the food – though for some strange reason he couldn’t help thinking of a frightened boy in the dungeons who surely would be receiving nothing more than a crust of bread for his dinner, if anything at all, as he supped on fresh venison and dried fruits. He’d never been bothered before by the fact he had much while so many others had little…really, this change was almost alarming. If he hadn’t seen and spoken to Merlin himself, he would have almost believed he’d been enchanted. But after talking with the boy, he found it laughable to think of him enchanting anyone.

So Arthur plastered on a smile, pretended to listen to his father’s conversations, and plotted how he would steal the keys and distract the guards while remaining unseen later that night.

He was relieved when the Lady Helen finally stood to sing, knowing it signaled that the formal portion of the feast was almost at an end and his ability to escape without suspicion drawing closer. 

Except, he suddenly found that he was exhausted…so tired… Perhaps a small nap…just to make sure he’d be ready for the night…

Arthur woke with a start to a room that was dark and cold, covered in huge cobwebs that draped the walls and tables and layered the sleeping people who were still slumped at the them. He was sitting upright, his father awake beside him, but he couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t even speak, was totally helpless. All he could do was blink owlishly.

The Lady Helen stood before them, except she was…morphing into a different form, changing until it was no longer the Lady Helen that faced him but the sorceress who had shouted threats before disappearing the day prior.

“How powerful you are!” she spat at his father. “The mighty Uther, king of Camelot, unable to lift so much as a finger! How you have magic cowed!”

Fear shivered up Arthur’s spine at her hate-filled words.

“You took my son from me, forced me to watch as he died. Now I return the favor!”

A knife appeared in her wrinkled hand and as she left his line of sight, real panic welled up inside Arthur. He felt her walk behind him, felt her hands on his shoulders, and he couldn’t move! He couldn’t fight! He couldn’t breathe!

He caught the sight of a blade, sharp and glinting coldly, out of the corner of his eye before he felt it touch his neck. The rage and horror and fear in his father’s eyes was the final thing he saw before he closed his own.

“Goodbye, Prince Arthur,” the witch hissed in his ear, and then the knife slashed across his throat with lightning-quick agony, tearing skin and sinew.

The last thought he had as he felt his own blood streaming down his body, draining his life away with deceptive warmth and making his head fuzzy and light, was a moment of sorrow to realize he wouldn’t be able to save the magical boy, and to wonder if that boy had been free, hadn’t been condemned for his selfless act, could he have perhaps saved Arthur’s life as well?

*****

Merlin didn’t sleep that night. He tried, but despite his efforts to squash it, his heart clung to the faint hope Gaius had offered and he waited, stomach tied in knots, for the old man to appear.

Except, when he finally heard the crash of footsteps, it wasn’t the physician who rounded the corner and burst into his cell but the king, face red and rage mixed with grief turning his eyes to molten fire.

“YOU MURDERER!” Uther screamed, yanking a shocked Merlin to his feet by his hair and then smashing a fist across his face. Pain burst through the warlock’s head and he felt his skin tear and lip split. As his vision momentarily dimmed, it was only the king’s ironfisted grip on his jacket that kept him from dropping back to the floor.

“You killed him! My son!” the king screamed, shaking Merlin like he hoped to snap the boy in two. “You and all the evil _filth_ just like you!”

“What?” Merlin slurred, completely lost. _The prince was dead?_

“Who are you working with! Where is the witch! How deep does this canker stretch! You will tell me, NOW!”

“I’m not…not working with anyone…” Merlin gasped, eyes blown wide with pain and terror, his chains clanking like the tower bells as the mad king continued to shake him so hard his teeth rattled.

“LIES! Why are you here! WHY DID YOU KILL MY SON!” Spittle flew as the incensed king shouted.

“Please!” Merlin begged, his ears still ringing and blood staining his teeth. “I just came to work! I just came to work for Gaius!”

“ _Gaius_!” Uther screeched, reason completely fled. “Gaius is part of this! That _traitor!_ I should never have trusted him!”

Horror flooded Merlin as he realized what he’d just done. “No, no, no, sire!” he wailed, clasping at the king’s fist in desperation. “No, Gaius hasn’t done anything! Please, please don’t hurt him!”

But he was soundly ignored as the king threw him forcefully to the ground.

“Arrest the physician!” the man ordered. “He can join the boy on the pyre! The ax is too kind for their ilk!”

“No…no…no….” Merlin sobbed nonstop, a tangled pile of limbs and chains and guilt and fear.

“And take this filth to the torture chamber!” the king continued, gesturing toward the hysterical boy on the floor. “I will MAKE him tell me where the others are, I will pull the names and locations from his very guts if I have to, because my _son is dead_!”

*****

Merlin’s last full day on earth was spent in a fiery agony of whips, hot irons, fists, and blades. Questions and accusations assaulted him from all sides and mixed with the unknown voice demanding his attention from inside his own head until he was reduced to a broken mess, one tortured phrase of “ _please no!_ ” torn over and over from his throat until even his voice deserted him. Finally, he collapsed, unable to suffer one thing more, and his magic mercifully sent him into oblivion.

He awoke back on the floor of his filthy cell, the dawn of his final day just starting to creep through the tiny slit high up in the wall that was his only source of light.

Exhausted beyond caring, Merlin just lay there – too hurt and broken and without hope to bother moving. As his last hours trickled away and his death drew nigh, the boy desperately pushed thoughts of flame and fire and unimaginable pain to the back of his numb mind. Thankfully, the voice that had been digging at his head until even his very brain was bruised had gone silent.

So the boy lay there, minutes of life ebbing steadily away, and composed the letter that would never be sent to his beloved mother silently in his mind.

_I’m sorry._

_Please don’t cry._

_I love you._

_I’ll miss you._

He offered no resistance when the guards came, rebinding his mangled wrists behind his back with the same magic-restraining chains. The truth was he needed the soldiers’ assistance to even remain upright and moving, and all fight had drained away long ago anyway.

They dragged him up the stairs, out a door, and through a sea of people he didn’t look at and tried not to hear. He was shoved scrambling and stumbling up a tower of wood, his injured body barely functioning, to a wooden post where a bloody and bruised Gaius was already tied. 

They pushed his ravaged back against the post and bound his already chained hands to it, then the guards clambered quickly back down.

The king that had spent all the hours of the day before torturing him began his speech, ranting and shouting their condemnation but the words simply washed over the trembling boy without registering.

“I’m scared,” he whispered brokenly. “I don’t want to burn.”

The physician’s fingers found his own, curling them in tight. “Oh my boy, you are so brave! Hold my hands and close your eyes and endure for just a little longer, and then together we’ll go to meet the gods in Avalon.”

The only anchor Merlin had in this final storm, he gripped the old man tightly.

The king finished, the torch was flung, and the pyre engulfed in flame. As the approaching heat turned his skin red and sweat ran like salt into his open wounds, Merlin clenched his eyes shut and clung to those fingers. He tried so hard to be strong and brave, but when the fiery tongues began to devour his bare feet and his clothes were set alight, there was no room left for pride or bravery in his broken mind and his young life burned up in agonized screams.

*****

Morgana’s world was unraveling around her.

Arthur was dead and Uther – the king who was fast descending into grief-fueled madness – was her father.

_Her father!_

The half-brother whom she’d lost before she’d even found had yet to be placed in a tomb, but already she was being forced to stand next to the man she was beginning to hate with every fiber of her soul and as his newly declared heir, listen to the horrific screams of one of her oldest friends and an innocent boy as they were burned alive.

Unable to endure it any longer, she clamped her hands to her ears and turned away, leaning into Gwen, her maid sobbing openly as she gathered her into a desperate hug.

“No!” Uther yelled harshly, his eyes glinting with insanity as he tore the two girls apart. “You will watch! You are my heir! You will bear witness to the evil that magic is and the pain it causes!” He ripped her hands away from her head and forced her to face the pyre, where only the boy was still writhing in anguish.

And even as she shied away, tried to resist watching, the dying boy gave one last tortured scream and fell limp, consumed by the flames.

For a moment, it was utterly still, as if the whole world was holding its breath in shock at the horrible thing it had just seen, and then the very earth exploded.

_“MERLIN!!!!!!!!!!!! NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”_

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere, deep and guttural and ancient, splitting the air, shattering the ground, devouring the silence. The earth rolled beneath her feet as if it had become the sea and people tumbled to the ground as parts of the castle broke off and followed them. Window glass pulverized, cracks carved their way through the courtyard and walls and citadel towers, and something…something intangible but intensely present and alive…broke. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt it, deep in her soul, as if the entire universe had just shifted.

Lying on the ground, riding out the storm as the voice faded and the tremors stilled, Morgana simply wept.


	2. Shattered

**2\. “Shattered”**

The royal crypts where the brave and hallowed rulers of Camelot had been laid for generations were damaged beyond repair in the earthquake, their eternally sleeping occupants forever buried under a mountain of rubble. As a result, Camelot’s beloved prince was also consigned to the flames.

He wasn’t the last.

The prince’s death had finally unhinged something in the king’s grief-stricken mind. The purge of twenty years before was nothing compared to the reign of terror Uther unleashed on the land after Arthur was killed. Any whisper of magic, any breath of something strange, any shadow of suspicion… People lived in fear and terror, neighbor turned on neighbor, and the pyre was a constant fixture in the courtyard, its smoke forever staining the skies of Camelot as the guilty and the innocent alike burned and the cries of the people rent the air.

With strangling impotence, Morgana watched it all happen, wishing to stop it but not sure how. Her dreams became jumbled messes of violence and death, no longer clear but all the more terrifying because of that. She had no idea what they meant, but when the shock of a particularly gruesome one had her jerking awake to a petrified Gwen as every candle in her room and the dead fire in the hearth sprang to life, she could no longer deny her worst fear – that she, the proclaimed heir of the king hunting the very existence of enchantments from the earth, had magic.

Gwen, loyal and sweet to the end, kept her secret, but it did little to ease Morgana’s worries.

She had magic. She, the daughter of Uther the Purger, was a witch.

Her hatred of Uther – she refused to call him father – grew and festered along with her fear as she watched her beloved Camelot darken with smoke, famine, war, and death. On the surface, she played the part of dutiful princess, but whenever she could, she slipped away – wandering, hiding, searching for something… _though what_ she had no idea.

Following the most foul of scents one evening, she stumbled into a huge, hidden cavern under the castle, its ceiling half-crumbled into dust and boulders. There she found the rotting carcass of a huge beast – a great dragon! – one leg still bound in a rusting chain.

A dragon, captive under the castle – hidden, forgotten. Another hypocritical secret of the monster who had fathered her. 

Morgana stood for a long while, the back of her hand covering her nose as she stared at that body, all that remained of what was once a majestic, noble creature. She wondered if the earthquake had killed it, as it couldn’t have been dead for long. She hoped, though she wasn’t sure why, that it hadn’t suffered much. Finally, she gave it a little respectful bow and then whirled and left. 

At the top of the broken passage she paused and turned back. For the first time in her life she willingly called on the power that flowed through her veins, eyes flashing as she forced the rest of the ceiling and walls of the lower passage to collapse, sealing the dragon forever in its prison become a tomb.

*****

Druids began to arrive in Camelot, wailing dire warnings of pestilence, famine and doom, prophesying of wars and bloodshed, begging to be heard, to be believed, to be heeded before it was too late. 

Uther burned them all then celebrated each death with a feast even as the crops began to fail in the borderlands and the people went hungry.

When the peasants in those villages flocked in desperation to the city, pleading for help, Uther blamed the bordering kingdoms.

By Yuletime, Camelot was at war with four of their neighbors and a grim-faced Sir Leon was conscripting twelve-year-olds into the army, pulling them from their weeping mothers’ arms by order of the king.

After discovering the dragon, Morgana’s wandering took her farther and farther, out of the castle and into the town around it. Draped in a worn, brown cloak with the hood pulled up – to hide who she was from any who might wish ill against the crown – she haunted the streets and alleyways.

And she no longer dreamed, because her waking hours had surpassed the horror of her nightmares. 

*****

“Gaius? I’m looking for Gaius?”

It was just another cold, winter night with grey clouds that hung low and the scent of smoke strong in the air - smoke that Morgana pretended came from the shacks and cook-fires around her and not from the courtyard above. She was wandering again, unable to bear the castle and the man who stormed through it, and the desperate question caught her attention.

She squinted down the dim street and could just make out a shabbily-dressed woman, her green overskirt and headscarf worn and stained and a thin shawl that probably did nothing to hold back the cold pulled tight around her trembling arms. A small, much-mended pack was slung over one shoulder.

“Please!” she begged, trying to stop another person who was hurrying by, head down and avoiding eye contact in the way all of Camelot’s citizens traveled these days. “I need to find Gaius!”

Morgana felt a pang of deep loss.

_Gaius_. No one had said that name in many months. No one dared. Mentioning the old physician who had borne part of the blame for the prince’s death was tantamount to admitting to magic.

The princess hurried forward, quickly grabbing the arm of the woman who jumped in surprise.

“Come with me,” she whispered, tugging the other woman out of the alley and around a corner, ducking back behind a stack of barrels left when the old tavern keeper had been arrested and killed two months earlier for purchasing good luck charms.

As soon as they were out of sight and Morgana let go, the woman resumed her pleading.

“Do you know Gaius?” she asked, letting her pack slide to the ground and then clutching at Morgana’s hands. “Please I need to find him!”

“Shh…” Morgana hushed, looking around to make sure they were really alone, as though the mere mention of her old friend’s name could bring Uther out of the cracks.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it. Something’s happened to him,” the woman whispered, fear turning her face pale.

Morgana sighed. This woman must be from far outside the city to not have heard of Gaius’s fate, and from the looks of it, the old physician had been important to her. This was going to be a difficult conversation. “What’s your name?” she asked gently. “How do you know Gaius?”

“I’m Hunith. Gaius is my uncle, and the guardian of my son, but I’ve not heard a word from either of them for six months! Please, I’m so very worried!”

At the woman’s words, Morgana’s breath caught in her throat as she remembered a dark-haired boy whose innocent screams had rang out with Gaius’s as flames had claimed them both.

“What? What is it?” Hunith cried, obviously catching her moment of emotion.

Morgana had to tell her – had to tell this woman that both her uncle and her son were dead and had been for months, but she couldn’t do it here. She couldn’t deliver that kind of anguish and pain in a muddy back-alley.

“Please, tell me what you know!” the worried mother begged.

“I will,” Morgana assured her, placing an arm around her waist to try and offer comfort, “but not here. Will you please come with me?”

Hunith, trembling all over slightly from both cold and fear, stared at Morgana for a long moment before she finally nodded. Morgana lifted the other woman’s pack, placing it over her own shoulder, and then with her arm still firmly circling the peasant woman, steered her out of their hidden alcove.

They kept to the shadows – roaming the streets of Camelot after dark was enough to drawn suspicion these days. Still, it didn’t take them long to arrive at their destination: a small, weathered shack that wasn’t any different from those around it, muted light leaking out from beneath the crack under the door.

Morgana rapped softly. “Gwen?” she whispered, hoping her maid was home alone this night.

The door was quickly thrown open with Morgana and Hunith drawn inside before it was latched tightly behind them. Then Gwen stood with her back to it, the expression on her face both confused and reprimanding. Thankfully, there was no sign that her father was home from the forge yet.

“My lady! You should not be out alone! Not at this time of night!” the girl cried, though she couldn’t keep her eyes from flicking worryingly to the stranger Morgana had brought into her home.

“Gwen,” Morgana hushed her with a stern word, guiding Hunith over to sit on one of the benches at the rough table that filled most of the room. “Gwen, this is Hunith. She is Gaius’s niece, and she is looking for her son that was staying with him,” she said softly, pointedly.

Her maid’s chocolate eyes instantly filled with tears. “Oh,” was all she said – quiet, broken, filled with sorrow – before she turned away, hand pressed to her mouth, and set about making a pot of tea.

*****

Hunith had cried long into the night, held tightly by both Morgana and Gwen. Tom had come home at one point, taken one look at the scene playing out in his kitchen, and mumbled to Gwen that he fancied a visit to the tavern before hastily backing out.

As Morgana sat there, murmuring soothing words that were hollow and meaningless to the mother grieving the death of her only child – an innocent boy who’d been murdered by Morgana’s own father – her thoughts turned strangely to Arthur.

There were so many times she’d been angry with him, raged at him, felt he’d been a coward for not standing up to Uther when Morgana was sure he’d wanted to. It was only now, as she smoothed the hair of the woman sobbing quietly in her arms for her lost family, that Morgana really understood how he must have felt. How trapped he’d actually been. Because Morgana might be a princess and heir to the throne, but she was powerless to fix this, to fix any of it! Camelot was falling to ruins around her and she had no idea how to save it.

*****

Winter progressed, cold and bitter and deadly. Camelot’s soldiers marched dejectedly home from their many battles – victorious for now, but at tremendous cost. Everywhere Morgana turned there was pain and loss, sickness and hunger, and most of all – fear.

Fear that dictated Morgana’s life as well because, though she longed to do something to help her people and her kingdom, she was also so very afraid. Afraid of what she knew she was and what it would mean to be discovered. Afraid of what her father – the king – would do to her if he found out. Afraid of what she might become if she gave into the feelings of rage and terror and anger that sometimes threatened to consume her.

Then came the day Gwen’s father Tom was accused of aiding a sorcerer. He was condemned to the fire along with his whole household. Morgana had begged and pleaded and yelled, desperate to save her maid’s life, but to no avail. Uther was beyond reason.

As Morgana stood there, emotion choked tears draining down her face as she watched her best and last friend die, something inside of her that had been teetering on the edge finally broke.

That night, she summoned Sir Leon to her quarters.

*****

The feast was to celebrate her birthday, and Uther ordered that nothing be held back. The opulence in food and drink and lavish presents was stupendous. 

It made Morgana sick, knowing as she did the starvation and suffering of the people just outside of the castle walls. 

Still, she simpered and nodded and played the part of dutiful daughter and princess, seated by Uther’s side. 

And when Uther stood and turned his mad eyes on her, raising his glass in a toast to her name, she sat there and smiled.

And when Uther drank the wine, then gasped and clutched at his throat, eyes bulging and hands stretched out toward her for help, she still sat there and smiled.

And when Uther’s lifeless body fell to the ground, not one person having moved from their chair to help their king, Morgana finally allowed the bitter smile to fade, nodding once to Sir Leon across the way.

The knight stood, carefully placing his goblet down and spoke, loud and strong. “The king is dead. Long live the queen.”

She wondered what it meant, what sort of person it made her, but she also couldn’t deny that it was the best birthday present she’d received in a long while.

*****

Spring returned, but it came with a lack of the hope that usually accompanied the season. Morgana, helped by Sir Leon and those who remained of the knights who had been loyal to Arthur, tried so hard to be a good and just queen, to save her land and her people, but she soon realized it was too late. 

Uther, in his madness, had sought to drive magic from the land, and magic – having had enough – had finally responded to his wishes. He couldn’t drive it from the people, make them stop using it, but magic was much more than just a force men called on to perform cheap parlor tricks – it was woven into the very fabric of the earth – and the Earth was tired of being assaulted. So she withdrew it, sheltered it, protected it. And the people paid the price.

Camelot’s farmlands that had always been so bountiful withered, the soil turned alkaline and barren. Storms came, but not the gentle rains needed to sprout crops. No, these were gales that were capable of wiping whole villages from the face of the land. 

Sickness flourished and spread, fueled by the fact that Uther had put to death most of those with any sort of healing knowledge on the basis they might be dabbling in charms and potions.

One by one, Camelot’s allies turned on them, pushing at their borders, driving her people farther and faster, the stream of refugees into the citadel and lower town a daily, constant sight until it bulged with miserable humanity. More people, less room, not enough food or shelter or hope.

With deep sorrow and guilt, Morgana fought it all. She threw herself into being queen with every fiber of her soul, taking council with any she trusted, poring over books of strategy and farming and treaties. And she embraced her magic, begging the earth to respond, to reconsider, to forgive.

But, she soon realized, it was all for naught. Camelot was cursed – a curse brought on themselves – and nothing Morgana did could stop the inevitable march of fate.

*****

Despite the fact it was summer, the night was cold and dark, a chill wind blowing across the battlements and whistling through the turrets and towers of the castle. It carried with it the too familiar scent of smoke – not from a pyre in the courtyard this time but from the campfires of Camelot’s enemies, glowing threateningly from just outside the city walls on all sides.

Camelot was under siege – the armies of all her former allies turned foes had arrived two days prior and settled in, ready for a long wait.

On the ramparts Queen Morgana stood dressed in her armor, dark cloak pulled tight for both concealment and warmth, looking out at her ruined kingdom with sad, world-weary eyes.

This was it. The last night that Camelot would exist. In a few short hours – well before dawn so as to have at least the element of surprise on their side – every man, woman, and child left alive in her city would pick up whatever weapon they could find and fling open the gates, charging into battle. It was a horrible decision, though it hadn’t been a hard one. Camelot had never fallen to a siege, her walls and fortifications strong – but after a year of famine, sickness, war and death, there were no stores left. She could not survive a siege. Given the choice between starvation and death fighting for their families and home, her people had chosen the latter.

Morgana was proud of them, even as her heart was breaking.

“My queen, you should come inside.”

Morgana turned at the voice to find Sir Leon standing behind her, his face lined with weariness and worry.

“What for, Leon?” she responded, turning back to look out over the land teeming with soldiers. 

“Because the people need their queen,” he replied, coming to stand beside her.

“In a few short hours there won’t be a kingdom left to be queen of,” she said softly, bitterness creeping into her voice.

“You don’t know that, Morgana,” the tired knight spoke. “Miracles can happen…”

But Morgana was shaking her head before he was even finished, though she appreciated his attempt.

“No, Leon. Thank you, but no. Camelot’s time for miracles has passed. What we do tonight is face death, bravely and head on. It’s a noble act, but not a hopeful one.”

To his credit, Leon didn’t argue, just stood beside her in silent support as the night’s minutes slipped by.

“Arthur should have been here,” she muttered after a long while.

“Pardon?” Leon asked, turning his face her direction.

“Arthur. He should be here.”

“Morgana, you are a great queen and leader. The people love and respect you,” the knight countered strongly, unfailingly loyal as always.

“Maybe so, but I still can’t help thinking – can’t rid myself of this feeling that everything is wrong. That this was never what I was meant to do. That this was _Arthur’s_ place, and somehow, he would have known how to save us all.”

“No one can know what might have been,” her First Knight answered, showing the wisdom she had valued so much throughout her short reign. 

Morgana nodded, leaning against her friend with a sad smile.

“Do you remember the boy, the one that Uther killed with Gaius?” she asked, finding her thoughts traveling to strange places on this last night.

“I will never forget him,” the knight said sadly. “He is one of my deepest regrets.”

“Camelot is a kingdom full of regrets,” she said softly, then turned her back to the enemy fires. “Come, Leon. The night slips away from us.”

Together, Queen and knight left the battlements to prepare to lead their people one last time.

*****

Three hours before dawn, the doors and gates and passageways of Camelot’s citadel were all flung open and her people rushed out – knights and soldiers, farmers and merchants, mothers and fathers and children, weapons held high and the unified cry of _“FOR THE LOVE OF CAMELOT!”_ on every lip. Queen Morgana Pendragon led them, proud and regal and strong, wielding both sword and spells.

It was a battle for the ages, one for bards to weave tales about for centuries to come, how Camelot’s people surprised their foes and fought for their lives and their kingdom.

But, Camelot was cursed and fate was not kind, and what started out as battle soon turned to slaughter.

Leon – wounded, weary, fighting like one possessed – watched it all. He paused to hold his queen as she drew her final breath, gently closing her eyes and laying her down away from the carnage, before taking up his sword once more and throwing himself into the fray. All around him his people fell, knights and neighbors and nobles alike until finally the First Knight was also the last.

When the fateful enemy sword finally slipped past his exhausted guard and found its target in his chest, he felt no pain, only relief. As his eyes slipped closed and he sank to his knees, he whispered, “ _For the love of Camelot_ ,” one last time.

The knight fell dead, the conquerors’ raised their victorious cries, and the land wept tears of blood.

**Author's Note:** This is where this story originally ended in my mind, and it still works as an ending. So, if you like this story just how it was, stop here. But if you are curious what my mind comes up with late at night sometimes, click next for the epilogue.


	3. Epilogue: Returning to the Point

**Epilogue. “Returning to the Point”**

Leon opened his eyes to a world of grey mist – around him, beneath him, above… 

He pushed himself to his feet, noting he had no armor or weapons, nor wounds or pain of any kind, though he could have sworn that he’d just died.

“Hello?” he shouted as the mist swirled, hoping against hope that the afterlife held more to it than this.

There was no answer, not even an echo, just a formless void that swallowed his voice up in nothingness.

The knight started walking, his feet moving without conscious thought, drifting in a random direction as the grey fog pulsed and wove, obscuring everything beyond the reach of his arm.

He walked, and walked, and walked…on and on, with no sense of time, for what could have been hours or days or years…until suddenly, three dark figures emerged from the shadows. They were shrouded in ragged robes and hoods, features completely hidden.

Leon stopped short.

Were these the guardians of the afterlife, sent to judge his life and see if he was worthy to enter?

“Leon, son of Lionel, knight of Camelot,” they intoned in unison.

He nodded, not sure if he was supposed to speak.

“Destiny has been denied –”

“Camelot has fallen –”

“Albion is no more.”

Leon shivered as they spoke, jumping in and finishing each other’s sentences. This was unsettling, with the mist and the swirling black cloaks and faceless figures, and somehow he was starting suspect he had not found his way to the gates of Avalon.

“Magic is angered and the earth cries in pain!” they again spoke together.

“Who are you?” Leon asked, narrowing his eyes. “Where am I?”

“Things cannot remain in this state!” they said, ignoring him completely.

“Knight of Camelot –”

“You have been chosen –”

“You must mend that which has been broken.”

“Who are you?” Leon repeated, more forcefully. “What right do you have to tell me I must fix the whole world if you won’t even tell me who you are?”

“We are the Disir! We are sent by the Triple Goddess! We judge the lives of men!” they screeched, advancing angrily and surrounding him, their rags whipping in a sudden wind. “You have been chosen to remember and to protect!”

Leon gulped, wondering why he couldn’t have just died in peace. “To remember? Remember what?” he asked, thoroughly confused. “Protect who?”

“To remember what was – ”

“What is –”

“And what must never be again!”

“To protect Courage –”

“And Magic –”

“And Albion.”

Leon had felt no pain when he came to awareness in this empty place, but this conversation was giving him a headache to rival all his battle wounds of the past as the strange figures talked in circles and hidden meanings.

“Why me?” he sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Why have you chosen me?”

“Because you are the catalyst –”

“The divergence –”

“The cause.”

He blinked, as if he’d been slapped.

“Wait. Are you saying that everything that happened, the entire fall of Camelot, was my fault?”

The figures drew away – retreating, again not answering.

“Remember Sir Leon, son of Lionel, knight of Camelot,” they chanted instead. “Remember!”

“Remember what?” he yelled after them. “What did I do? How did I cause this?”

But as suddenly as they had appeared, they were gone. Leon ran after them, pawing at the rolling mist, desperate to push it away, to see clearly, to find the women again or find a path or figure out where he was… Anything to leave this grey sameness! He ran until the pain of battle returned and he couldn’t breathe or stand, until he collapsed, and then the grey mist rushed in and buried him as if it were dirt covering a grave and he knew no more.

*****

Leon woke with a start, covered in sweat and with his heart racing. He grabbed instinctually for his sword before realizing he wasn’t in battle but in his own bed, safe in his chambers in Camelot.

With a groan he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and letting his head drop to his hands as images and emotions crashed through it, chaotic as his nightmares had been but fading fast.

He sat there for a long time, steading his breathing and desperately trying to hold onto the scenes from his dreams, but they twisted and turned and slipped away like sand through fingers until all he was left with was a vague sense of unease and warning.

Finally, when the first sliver of dawn found his window, he shook his head and stood, throwing on clothing and heading for the grounds. There was nothing as good as a brisk training session for clearing a troubled mind.

Except it didn’t work - not this time.

Leon found his days passing as normal but the constant niggle of worry and urgency that had settled in his gut refused to go away, and his nights were spent tossing in a mess of dreams he could never remember upon waking. 

Until one day, after taking a small slice to the arm during a run in with bandits on patrol, the knight opened the door of the court physician’s chambers to see Gaius falling and an unknown boy’s eyes flashing gold as a bed literally flew across the room to break his fall. He opened his mouth to cry “Sorcery!” but suddenly, his knees went weak as images and memories of a different lifetime crashed into him. 

A boy named Merlin… A dead prince… Pyres and screams and smoke…so much smoke. A land shriveled and dying and cursed… Battles and death and blood and pain…

A choice and a catalyst, a path set in motion and a chance to undo it…

And so, even as he distantly noted that Gaius had begun yelling at the boy he knew was named Merlin, Leon sucked in a shaky breath and simply shut the door.

*****

Destiny righted itself, the stars realigned, and the prophesies slotted back into place. A boy lived to protect a prince.

Leon wondered if he would forget, after that fateful day when he made the conscious choice to see a young boy’s magic and look the other direction, but he didn’t. Sometimes, he convinced himself that the first lifetime had only been a nightmare, but then he’d feel the ghost pains of battle wounds he’d never received and know it wasn’t.

In return for his burden, fate offered a gift: a protected life. It took a while for Leon to notice, but after the mess with the dragon, he couldn’t ignore the signs any more – he was meant to see this lifetime through to some distant conclusion.

So Merlin protected Arthur, molding and tugging and insulting an arrogant prince into the Once and Future King he was meant to become. And Leon watched over both of them, standing beside his prince and king as knight and friend, and protecting and covering for a skinny, clumsy warlock who wasn’t nearly as careful with his magic as he should have been.


End file.
